


Constantijn Huygens

by FreyaLor



Category: History of France, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: How Captain Treville, a bit lost in the depths of his first mid-life crisis, makes very terrible use of very good relationship advice.Started as an anon Tumblr prompt for "Richelieu receiving jewelry as gift", but gone out of control.





	1. Ruby Red Cross

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic as a summer holiday pleasure, on my terrace, with an ice-cold lemonade, watching my kid play, enjoying the sun, and it should be read as such, nothing more.  
> It was made purely for fun, without compromise for historical accuracy or even good sense. It's light, it's cute, it's absurd.
> 
> if you're about to read this, my friend, just sit back and pour yourself a good glass of your favourite of the day. That's the best thing you could do.

 

 

 

 

   
  
_-Constantijn Huygens, 1596-1687_

 

 

 

**Part One : Dutchmen**

 

 

 

 

God, how boring.

 

Boring as diplomatic meetings can be. Once the first hour is done, and the Carnival of ballets, buffets and fireworks made to impress the guests into silence is over, it’s nothing more than a sluggish, hazed nightmare.

 

The only mildly amusing thing is that the reception hall could be a perfect diagram of the Court of France. I can see the pecking order of society translated into sound and space.

At the center of the wide room, a table has been prepared for ten. At the head of the table, the highest, brightest seat is made for the King. Around him, ten humble, yet magnificent chairs, for the ten most relevant men in power. Starting naturally, at Louis’ right side, with Armand.

The rest is made of Officers and Ministers from the Council, as well as the Dutch delegation, with at its head, Constantijn Huygens, lord of the unpronounceable lands of Zuylichem. Those are the only men allowed to talk. The only voices in the room are theirs. The only sound, actually, except for the small chamber orchestra next room, playing delicate tunes to lighten up the mood.

Around them, close enough to the table, but not allowed to sit down or speak, are noblemen and representatives for guilds and corporations.

 

Standing in a wider circle, courtiers and lower Officers. That is where, according to Protocol, I should stand, silent and idle. Right between the women’s dancing fans and the last, widest, most chaotic circle of valets, secretaries and low-born courtiers. 

_The Hell I will._

 

I literally begged to be charged with security, and though I’m running around the room, watching out for concealed weapons or foreign faces, I’m already bored to tears. Armand may growl and sigh, there is no world, no universe where he’ll have me stand still, without any other purpose than to be seen there, among those over perfumed whores, lowlifes and beggars.

 

Not me, not ever.

 

I have five men dispatched around the hall, and I quietly walk from one to the other, exchanging glances or quick nods, meaning everything’s fine. It gives me a bloody reason to be there, it gives me a semblance of meaning.

It gives me a better view of him.

 

I do look at everyone, I truly do, but truth be told, Armand is always goddamn impressive in those diplomatic parades.

He’s at his best, sitting comfortably in his area of expertise, where his wits, and the vibrant sincerity of his voice matter the most.  
He looks his best, his ceremonial robes like a cascade of red silk around his tall frame, his heavy velvet cloak, though perfectly useless in mid-August, thrown around his shoulders in graceful folds.

When he listens, he listens with everything he has, his wide dark eyes fixed with intensity upon the speaker, and God, the man better be certain of what he says, because that’s not a stare you can stand easily.

When he speaks, he empties the room of all other sound, keeping his voice quiet and delicate precisely because it forces everyone to hold their breath to hear him. She talks in short, concise sentences, every word planned and prepared, his bearing merciless, his smile impeccable.

 

Louis keeps watching him in thankfulness, obviously delighted to see Armand lay down all the relevant information before him for each decision he needs to make. The fact that this information might be Richelieu’s own selection according to whatever he has in mind doesn’t seem to worry the King the slightest.

 

This is boring, but that could be worse. At least I get to look at him.

And every time I meet his gaze, his exasperation at my constant moving grows heavier on his face.

 

  
_‘You overactive hound, couldn’t you just stay put for one afternoon?’_ he scorned yesterday night as I told him I squeezed from the King the right to be on duty today. I laughed. He didn’t.

He spent a whole hour complaining about my unbearable need for movement, my lack of interest for refined debates.

-“If you used your mind a little bit more instead of your brawn, It would do you nothing but good.” He hissed at some point.

-“If I used my brawn any less than I do, Armand” I breathed into his ear ; “I wouldn’t do _you_ as much _good_.”

He coughed, blushed, arranged his robes in three delicate pats of his hands, and slid to safety, a few steps away from my hungry mouth. I didn’t last. He let me approach, he always does, and God, I did him _good_. I had to stifle his cries with my hand for most of the night.

 

So as he throws me those irritated side glances whenever I stride by the discussion table, I merely smile at him, nodding my respects in a short bow. ‘ _Blunt Bearn war horse_ ” his voice sneers in my head. And by the look on his face, that’s exactly what he is thinking.

 

A pair of endless hours more, and the discussion comes to an end. Louis looks beyond pleased, and Richelieu gathers his papers with the quiet face of duty well performed. The Dutch are talking among themselves in that throaty dialect of them, Huygens sounding absolutely amazed by Armand, eyeing him in awe from time to time.

 

As the King stands up, everyone follows, and the valets take the table and chairs away with quick, silent moves. Huygens claps his hands twice, and two of the Dutch servants slide out of the widest circle with ease, both carrying a heavy wooden trunk, carved in intricate aerial patterns.

They lay down the trunks at Louis’ feet, and open them for him to gaze at the contents.

Curious, I slide behind the King’s back to peek. From where I am, I can see gold and precious stones, yards of the rarest silk from the Colonies, a bust of Louis perfectly carved in delicate polished ebony, what seems to be refined foods, and an amazing set of porcelains enhanced with pearls of jade.

Louis, genuinely impressed, compliments every piece, asking about the craftsmen’s names and places, making gleeful comments about the Dutch being among the noblest people.

Huygens praises the King in return, in a perfect, flowery French, only bearing a slight rough accent. I heard Louis say he is a composer and poet before he is a diplomat, and was sent on this special mission by Frédéric-Henri because he’s an exceptional talker.

 

And that he is.

-“Your Majesty is merely looking at a glimpse of what our people is willing to give to make Him understand how highly we regard your glorious Kingdom, and how eager we feel about the start of  healthy, profitable commercial relations.”

Huygen’s voice is low and powerful. His young, elegant features are surrounded by wild black curls, and his clothing is rich and ornate, or at least as much as a Protestant is allowed to display. Everything in his poised moves claims the highest of origins, and a wide, sophisticated education.

I’ve heard those smooth flexions of the voice, those delicate ruffles of expensive lace.  
I’ve seen those graceful smiles, those slender artist’s hands somewhere.

Everyday, _in Armand_.

 

I take a look at the Cardinal, at Louis’ right side as always. He smiles, one of those small, yet sincere smiles he rarely has in court, watching Huygens with satisfaction in his eyes, and I feel my jaws clenching before I even think about it.

The Dutchman, after a final bow for the King, turns towards Armand with sunlight on his face, and those two seem to get along so damn well I almost growl out loud.

Huygens snaps his fingers at one of his valets, who retrieves a smaller wooden case from his doublet. It looks like a glove box, a bit thicker, maybe. The precious mahogany wood is engraved with a Holy Cross in ivory and nacre, and it all looks quite heavy as the Dutchman takes it from the valet to lay it down in Armand’s hands with a short inclination of his head.

 

-“Please accept, Your Eminence, this token of our Church’s faith in the God of all Christians, as a flicker of hope that through our differences, we can find a way to bathe in the same Holy Light.”

 

I roll my eyes, _oh look, more intricate sentences._ Armand never seems to tire of these. I can’t stand them.  
I speak plain, or don’t speak at all. With a preference for the latter.

 

Richelieu gently nods, and opens the case with a deft switch of his fingers.

 

I see the perfect red light reflected on his pale cheeks before I even see the jewel. Armand’s eyes widen, his lips parting softly without a word.

Inside the case lies a silver cross, almost entirely covered with carved ruby. The gems are flawless, worthy of the best masters of Anvers, the silver setting almost inhuman in delicacy. The cross is sealed into a chain of pure silver, meant as a necklace no doubt. The whole thing must be worth an army, and even Louis’ eyebrows shoot up in admiration.

Armand quickly claps the box shut, fearing the King would complain about the gift throwing shade to his own. He takes some time to choose his smile, he takes a while to pick his words, and that’s the only clue betraying how taken aback he truly is.

 

-“Be certain, Lord Huygens,” he gently soothes, ”that I appreciate immensely.”

 

With that, he orders the box to be locked up in his apartments, and officially invites Huygens and his suite to the gardens for what will be, I am sure, another insanely boring buffet, this time with a demonstration of water jets, and a show of Louis' trained dogs.

 

I am relieved by Dussault, Captain of the French Guards, for the rest of the afternoon, and my briefing takes twenty seconds at most since there is absolutely nothing to watch out for. Dussault makes a joke about the kitchens still being filled with this morning's leftovers, whispering with a shrug that we're not paid enough to have scruples. I huff a small laugh, because he has no idea he is paid twice as much as I am.

 

I should leave. I should leave and claim a bottle from the kitchens just as he said, but I don't, not yet.

 

Something’s bothering me, something’s stirring in my heart, and I have no idea what.

So I stride in the gardens, following the Court, though I couldn't care less for the fountains or the dogs. I come to stand seven steps behind the Head Table, stop dead, and clench my fists behind my back.

 

Maybe I like to suffer, maybe I love trouble, maybe there's just an irrational part of me who craves for worry, but I just have to watch them some more.

 

The way Richelieu gently sits next to Huygens, the way the white dust of sand alleys draws barren landscapes on the lower rims of his robes. Maybe I like to suffer, but I have to watch the way he purposefully tilts his head to the side, adding just a little weight to his eyelids. How he absolutely genuinely focuses on what the Dutchman says, never cutting in, never looking away. The way he supports his replies with elegant waves of his hands, whispering discrete satires of the pompous spectacle around, sending Huygens into fits of barely contained laughter with a bloody triumphant smile.

 

 

 

The low stirring has turned to poison by now, twisting and spinning, and it hurts like hell, and it burns so hard I have to lower my eyes.

 

Huygens praises Armand's wisdom, quoting his own maxims, claiming he owns a few letters about international relations Richelieu wrote to Frederic-Henri. Armand literally exults, and the first three questions the Dutchman asks him about them sound like the questions he’s been waiting for _all his life_. I almost hear his delighted “Ah!” as he pushes his own plate aside to draw a figure in the air above the tablecloth with his fingertips, and he's lost to the rest of the world.

 

 

There's a sound coming out of my throat as I abruptly turn my heels and leave, and it was damn closer to a whimper than to a grunt.

 

 

 

 

***  

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : Charlotte**

 

 

 

 

My old garrison, my home, welcomes me with quiet sunlight as I jump down from my horse in its deserted courtyard. Most of my men are in the Louvres, getting ready for the demonstration tournament required by the King in honor of his guests tomorrow. I myself have a senseless heap of things to do about that before tonight, but not yet, _not yet_.

 

Before I start anything else, I have to erase the memory of Armand's fascinated eyes on Huygen's gift with half a bottle of Bodeaux.

 

 

 

 

I leave my horse with a pair of cadets and run to the stairs of my office, but since I definitely can get no peace in this world, I nearly bump into D'Artagnan's shiny white grin.

 

 

-”Good day, Captain!” He muses joyfully with a tilt of his hat. “How are things in the Palace?”

 

I let out something foul, between a sigh and the grunt I wish I had produced earlier; eyeing him with what must be the darkest of my stares.

D'Artagnan's smile fades just as quickly, and he bites his lips, clearing his throat like he has no idea what to do with himself. I roll my eyes, oh for God's sake, _what, now?_

 

-”What is it?” I growl.

 

The young man swiftly points at my office door above our heads and whispers:

 

-”You have a guest.”

 

-”What guest?” I hiss, darting past him. “I expect no one.”

 

He raises his hands in surrender, and steps aside to let me climb the stairs.

 

-”She said she was family!” He throws at my back, and I gasp in disbelief, but he runs away to the stables before I can ask for more.

 

He said “ _she_ ”. My family has only two women, one of them is my mother, who never left our house in Troisvilles.

 

The other…

 

 

 

I slam the door open, and God, she's there. She turns to me with a pile of plates and a wet rag in her hands, and she bloody well looks like she was _cleaning my cupboard_.

 

-”Charlotte!”

 

-”Bonjour, _Jeannot_.”

 

 

I close my eyes for a second and gently close the door behind my back. I haven't been called this way for three years. Three years since my last botched visit to my parents, between the siege of Arras and one of Armand's fits of fever. Three years since the last time I spent two nights in my childhood bed, underneath a portrait of Henry the Fourth and one of Luther.

 

Three years since we buried our father.

 

-“ What are you doing here?” I almost whine.

 

She shrugs, putting the plates back in the cupboard, and quietly walking to my desk to wipe it clean with the wet rag, _oh, Dear Lord_.

 

-“Can’t I pass by from time to time and visit my dear brother?” she starts, not even trying to fool me.

 

She gathers my scattered paperwork in neat piles, throws away the remains of dried bread that were lingering on my desk chair, and if I don’t shout right now she is going to ask me for a _broom_.

 

-“ **Charlotte!** ”

 

She drops the rag on the floor as if it was on fire and stares down at her shoes, fiddling with the ties of her corset.

 

-“Troisvilles is six days of carriage from Paris, you don’t just _pass by_.” I state firmly, dropping my cloak and weapons on a small table next to the door, making it as messy as possible. As a statement.

 

She winces and looks away, eyeing the hearth with, I am sure, the burning urge to brush the embers out of it. She always has to clean things when she’s nervous. I sigh, trying to rub the weariness out of my eyes, and let myself fall on a stool facing her.

 

-“Mother is sending you again, isn’t she?” I breathe.

 

She sits on my desk chair with a helpless groan, and throws her hands in the air.

 

-“She’s old, Jeannot. She’s worried. She’d like to see you married before God calls her back.”

 

 

My shoulders drop. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse; just when I thought my list of problems was long enough.

 

_Fool that I am, of course, it’s not._

 

The King's safety isn't enough. The Musketeer's training isn't enough. Being ready for war at any hour of my days and nights, being good enough of a soldier as my forty-fifth year slowly comes to an end isn't enough.

 

Loving bloody Cardinal Armand du Plessis Richelieu isn't enough.

 

I also have to meet my mother's _expectations_.

 

 

 

I need wine.

 

 

I get up moaning, go for my cupboard, _now, where did she put it away?_ \- find a decent bottle of old Bourgogne and pop it open. I pour two tankards and lay one of them on my desk next to her. I empty my own in one gulp, trying to avoid her critical frown.

 

-”You and Henri are happily married” I grunt as I sit back down. “Isn't that enough for her?”

 

 

-”Henri married the daughter of a Spanish silk trader, and I married a _blacksmith_ ” Charlotte reminds me, leaning towards me with her eyes open wide, a perfect mimicking of our mother's stern, disapproving stare, oh thank you, Lotte.

 

I know. As my older brother decided to marry a foreigner, and Charlotte's heart went for a craftsman no matter how hard mother tried to dissuade her, I am our family's last hope for a high-ranking wedding.

 

_God, am I born to disappoint?_

I pour myself another drink.

 

Charlotte watches me with a pained look on her lively, clever face.

 

She's not a classic beauty, never has been. She's as tall as I am, solid as a man. She has an elegant waistline, and delicate hands, but her shoulders are broad and her arms are strong. She frightened off every match my mother had hoped for her and was almost doomed to remain a spinster until she met that mountain of a man, Troisville's best blacksmith. Mother begged me to talk her into changing her mind, _hah_ , as if my Lotte ever listened to me. “You can't let her marry a sword-maker” mother said.

 

I told her France had been built upon good swords.

 

Charlotte married the next year.

 

 

She's headstrong and wild as all du Peyrer Treville are, but she read more books than I would in three lifetimes, and that made her eyes glint with a sharp, dangerous light. I might have succeeded at hiding most of my fears and flaws from my mother, but there has never been any way out of Charlotte's piercing stare.

 

Charlotte knows, she always did. When I turned of age, and young women from every corner of Béarn came knocking at our house's door, only to walk out disillusioned and furious, she knew. When mother showed me portraits of ladies from the Guyenne's nobility, only to see me shrug and look away, she knew. When I literally fled to Paris at the age of nineteen to join the French Guards, biting my lips at my mother's tears, she knew.

 

 

We've been inseparable, how could she not.

As Henri, the firstborn, was meant to take over father's business and took almost all his attention, we spent our early years alone, running around the woods and the hills of Sauguis. She taught me the only Latin I know. I taught her how to handle guns and swords, and to the great displeasure of our parents, she handled them all too well.

We used to creep up into the attic at night to get out by the window ans sit on our house's roof, watching stars and picturing the world we were going to build.

 

My dear Charlotte, how could she not.

 

 

-”You still don't like women, do you?” She lets out with an uneasy wave of her hand.

 

-”Do you seriously think those things _change_ like the bloody weather?” I roar, slamming my tankard on the desk.

 

She flinches, raising her hands with the soothing voice she always has when a man loses his temper in our house, and this used to happen five times a day.

 

-”Alright, alright, you daft horse, be quiet. I thought, maybe, with time, you never know...”

 

-”It's not a question of taste in food or fabric, Charlotte.” I plead. “It is the way God let me be, and the way God will find me when my time will come.”

 

She falls silent upon a worried, shaking sigh. She knows that too, she always did. I can't blame her for hoping, though. God knows I hoped for years, before I came to terms with my fate. My fears and flaws. _My mortal sins._

I rub my eyes again, a rush of anguish and mild shame washing over me for a second.

 

  
I battled and fought for thirty years, earning the title of Captain of the King’s Musketeers with blood and broken bones, is that not enough? Will I ever be good enough?

_Am I born to disappoint?_

 

 

I realize I closed my eyes on sour tears when I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I open them to look up at her worried face smiling down at me with a love I don't deserve.

 

-”It's alright, Jeannot” she soothes, “I'll tell mother you're married to your duty, I'll remind her of every battle you won against the Spanish or the Habsburgs, I'll tell her the King loves you, I'll bring her back some money, and you'll be her hero for the next three years. And I'll do it all over again after that, I'll do that until the end if I must. I got your back, soldier.”

 

I think I instinctively grabbed her plain blue dress as she spoke, and now that I've done it, I might as well kiss it, because I raised this girl into a blessing.

 

 

She pats my cheek, a bit too hard maybe, because that bloody Valkyrie of a woman doesn't know her force, and snaps her dress off my hand as she strides to the hearth.

 

-”Now, do you have food in that dirty slum of yours, or should I go and buy some?” she trumpets with nonchalance. “You look like you haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks.”

 

 

I grunt something about things to do, a tournament to prepare, the hope of getting some sleep, but it all just slides on the cotton of her dress like the wind on high ramparts.

I end up ordering two trays of food to be brought up from the mess, watching her shuffle around my office, sharing news of our mother, our gardens, our friends, tidying the shelves, cleaning up the floor, reviving the fire, asking me where I keep my needles because there's a tear in my coat.

 

It takes half an hour to have her sit the hell down and eat.

 

 

But there is blissful silence after that, and I can finally relax a little, enjoying the voice and the face of careless years. The sight and sound of childhood.

So I barely jump as she softly tries, stealing bread from my plate:

 

-”So, are you at least seeing someone?”

 

I stop and stare, my mouth still filled with stew, and I must look absolutely stupid, because she bursts into laughter.

 

 

-”Come on, Jeannot!” She claims as she wipes a tear from her eyes. “You write two letters a year, filled with the most devoted platitudes a sane man can produce, you _have_ to give me more than that! You used to tell me everything.”

 

 

I open my mouth, shut it, open it again.

Armand. I can't tell her about _Armand_.

 

 

She wouldn't believe, and even if she did, she'd never accept. God, she'd flat-out panic.

She only knows him by the reputation he has down in Béarn, and that reputation is _filthy_.

 

 

But, on the other hand, this is Charlotte. My Charlotte. We used to watch the stars, build a new world every night. I owe her every spark of joy my homeland ever gave me.

 

I owe her.

 

 

-”I do.” I let out.

 

She voices a delighted blessing, clapping her hands in sheer joy.

 

-”Tell me everything !” she demands.

 

-”I can't.” I mumble.

 

-”Ah!” She breathes, her bright eyes narrowing, her hands paused in their clapping, joined under her chin. She obviously ponders about my reasons for a while, then snaps her fingers and points at me:

 

-”He's married.” She states.

 

I shake my head.

 

-”He's high-ranking!” She blurts.

 

_You have no idea._

 

-”Something like that, yes.” I concede.

 

-”A noble man? From the Louvres?”

 

I raise my hand, gesturing that I will say no more, and she bites her lips upon a triumphant smile. She knows she's close enough, and I'm bloody grateful she chooses not to push any further.

 

But this is Charlotte, born du Peyrer Treville, and she has never given up a single fight.  
Father would have been so proud.

 

-”Is he a good man?”

 

-”Not always.”

 

-”Is he handsome, then?”

 

-”Not really.”

 

With that, she rolls the blue eyes our mother gave all of us, and hisses to her stolen bread:

 

-”Well, tell me what, for God's sake!”

 

 

I chuckle softy. _Hah_. Even I sometimes have no idea. My eyes drift behind Charlotte's back, to that rugged cot where I had so many thoughts of him, to those rough sheets where I had him once. I smile, I don't know why.

I didn't lie to her, he's not always good. Armand can be the wretched snake everyone thinks he is to last inch of his skin. The damage he so amazingly causes is always necessary, for sure, and that doesn't mean he never _enjoys it_. I've seen the smile of a demon stretch his thin white lips, and though he did show mercy more than once, I can't deny the darkness within him.

I didn't lie to her, he's not that handsome. What is considered handsome those days, if not those bulky long-haired sissies swarming in the Louvres? Feathered and powdered, in ruffling lace and high boots, their swords so ornate they're pointless? Armand is white as a sheet, drawn with angles and straight lines, his eyes too often circled in purple, his lips too often painted blue by exhaustion.

 

But there is a war raging in his eyes, there is a storm brewing in his voice, barely restrained by the elegance of his fingertips. His delicate stance like a flood barrier to the fury in his heart.

 

He's not good, he's not handsome.

 

 

-”He's trouble.” I breathe.

 

 

She inhales to ask for more, no doubt, but as my gaze took in the bare, stark soldier's cell I spent twenty years in, I just remembered Huygen's sophisticated quotes and perfect sentences, and my smile froze in thick ice.

 

-”What is it?” Charlotte prompts, tilting her head to the side, searching for my eyes.

 

I growl, and get up to look for another bottle. The only one remaining in the neatly dusted cupboard is a mediocre Côtes-du-Rhône, but it'll do. I pull the cork out with a twist of my hand and offer some to Charlotte. She shakes her head, giving me her traditional homemade Pointed Look. I shrug, crumbling on my stool and filling my tankard.

 

I lay both elbows on my desk, then, drop my face into my hands and huff a sharp sigh.

 

-”I'm an old war horse, that's all.” I grumble. “I'm forty-five, and all I've ever done is roll into the dust, blood splattered on my face, barking orders, shooting bullets. There isn't an inch of my skin that isn't torn with scars, and my shoulders ache a little more every day. Soon enough I'll be useless, what the hell will I do, then?”

 

I think my voice broke upon the last words, but she pretends she didn’t notice. She watches me with shocked eyes, her long fingers fiddling with her dress again.

 

 

-”Jeannot, what's happening to you? You never doubted yourself. You never doubted anything. You've always wanted to fight, you've been saying so since you were five. You wanted no other way, what makes you spit on everything you are by now?”

 

I close my eyes, but I can't escape the sight of that perfect red light, reflected by the rubies on Armand’s white cheeks.

 

I never offered him anything.

What could I present him that would be worthy of his time, among the things I actually can afford?

 

I am the hero of a hundred battles, I am the Captain of the King's Musketeers, and until this morning, I thought it was enough.

_Hah. Fool that I am._

 

Now I sit here, staring bitterly at the greying wooden floor of my office, dumbfounded by the fact that all my belongings fit in two travel trunks. The Musketeers regiment, if almost legendary, is still the lowest on the salary rate. Our wages come from the King's personal fortune, and this money always runs low. Captain or not, God, _I have nothing_. 

 

I never cared. I never needed much. I send half of everything I earn to Troisvilles every month, and I am still happy with whatever’s left. It never bothered me.

 

Until this morning, I thought it was enough.

 

 

 

I drink two more glasses, but I can’t escape the memory of Armand’s gasp of joy at Huygen’s sophisticated speech.

 

I never wrote him anything.

 

I never could align five words to form something nice. I actually never even tried. I speak plain, or I don't speak at all. Charlotte tried to push a few books under my nose, and I read them to make her happy, but I barely remember a line of it all, all I wanted to do was to practice that fencing move, that counter-attack. All I know, I’ve learned it in the mud of battlefields. All I know, a weapon taught it to my skin.

 

How did Armand even put up with me for so long?

 

 

I wince, feeling so helpless I could just curl up on my bed and stay there until Christmas. Silent falls into the small office, only broken, minutes later, by Charlotte’s low, clever voice:

 

-”That nameless lover of yours. He's an intellectual, right?”

 

I jump and stare at her, and she doesn’t need any more word. She lets out a fond chuckle, leaning back into my chair and stretching her long legs.

 

-“That’s your favorite nagging fear, isn’t it?” she laughs. “Not being good enough. It always pushed you to act beyond reason. You wanted to protect us, and you had to pick a fight with every man that even looked sideways to mother or me, guard our door at night, and teach my children to fire guns. You wanted to serve France, and you had to throw yourself in every battle you could find, so reckless and obstinate you almost became a legend. And now, you fell for some well-placed highbrow, and so naturally you want to be _Virgile_.”

 

 

I almost roar; opening my mouth to protest, and I want to destroy each one of her sentences with everything I have, _how dare she even think_ …

But she just stands up slowly, adjusting a few strands of my hair with tenderness, and goes straight for my coat on the table behind my stool, muttering something about having a needle and thread in her bag. I sit back heavily, the air stolen from my very lungs.

 

-“I don’t know who that evil, ugly troublemaker is, Jeannot”, she exhales as she cuts half a yard of thread with her teeth; “but he certainly didn’t choose you for your skills in poetry. He certainly likes you for who you are, since you’re basically incapable of lying. If you’re afraid of the things you’re bad at, well, remind him those you’re _good_ at. Surely he is sensitive to them.”

 

 

With that, she switches to a joyful babbling about that tournament she heard me mention earlier, and how she really, _really_ wishes to see me demonstrate in front of the King. How an invitation would be so nice, since she is family after all, and she brought her best dress from home, the one with the velvet rims.

 

I only nod.

 

She asks me if I think she would look odd among the higher-born, and if the Palace is as dirty as it’s told to be. She finishes her stitching, snipping the thread off the mended fabric, and complains about how late it already is, how she should be back to the Boniface house, where a spare room has been prepared for her. She asks me if I remember Isabelle Boniface, the daughter of our family’s physician, who married a clerk in Paris.

 

I nod some more.

 

 

She gets ups and grabs a pair of huge saddlebags with frightening ease, opening them to pull out gifts and lay them on the table, like a bar of soap from Oleron, the sharpest of razors, no doubt a creation from my brother-in-law, and a brand-new chemise, obviously made by our mother’s own hands. She tells me I don’t have to walk her back, because she rented a horse, and the house is just down the street. She kisses me on both cheeks, and I think she tells me to get some sleep, that I look pale, that I look tired.

 

I nod, that’s all.

 

 

 

When the door shuts upon her steady gait, I absent-mindedly remove my clothes, wash myself with cold water, put on my new chemise, empty the second bottle in one move and sink on my cot, stunned to dizziness.

 

_“Remind him those you’re good at”_

 

Now, let me think…

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Drum Roll

 

** Part One – Everything I love. **

 

 

-“There’s a change of plans for this afternoon” I grunt once I’ve gathered them all around me.

 

My musketeers nod with joyful trepidation at first, but as they inspect my face further, they notice the furious frown, and sober down quickly enough.

 

I bite my lips for a second. Perhaps I give them that sullen face a bit too often. A little more, no doubt, than they deserve. In fact, they've been nothing less than excellent during this morning’s training, eager to prove to the King how skilled and brave they are.

 

But to my defense, their flawless behavior is part of what drowned my mood into the mud.

 

 

Really, this may be the first time I am actually allowed to bring the best of my men at the Louvres, and have them demonstrate to the King, the Court, the Officers, the diplomats.

Every soul with a shred of power in this Kingdom has been gathered around the courtyard today, including, of course, _Armand_.

 

As I arrived this early morning, my men were getting ready for training, chatting happily around the fighting area built specially for the occasion. A few steps away from them, the King himself, who pushed his usual morning stroll a little bit further just to watch them.

Right at his side, as always, the tall red shadow of the Cardinal de Richelieu.

 

 

 

My heart swelled with warmth, because for the first time in my life, I had everything I love in the same space and time, and the sight was perfect. Unique.

 

My Musketeers. My life’s work.

My King.

_My love._

 

 

Armand had a soft smile for me as I paid my respects to the King, and there was no Dutchman in sight. Overjoyed, I turned to my men and declared the training opened with a proud, hopeful yell, fool that I am.

 

_Fool that I am._

 

 

They all fought like madmen, swords whistling in the air, clanging, hissing. They knew the King was watching, and though it was only a rehearsal for this afternoon, they gave pretty much all they had. Louis, after all, is the only one they meant to demonstrate for. I let them fight between themselves, choosing their own opponent, improvising short tournament of their own. I gave them all my attention, but I only cut in to bark some advice, correct their guard, improve their leg work. Nothing much, really. Even the ten cadets I selected for the day showed exceptional prowess, though at the price of extreme, stressful efforts.

 

They were all good and virtuous men long before they ever crossed my path but maybe, somewhere along the way, _I also trained them well._

 

 

_“Remind him those you’re good at”_

 

 

Once the session finished, I finally turned towards Armand, beaming pride, already picturing a well-earned flicker of admiration in his bright, anthracite eyes.

 

But when I found his thin red frame, I felt my heart sink.

 

He didn't even look up, entirely absorbed in a heap of maps and papers, handed to him by Constantijn bloody _Huygens_ , who appeared out of nowhere during the training.

 

 

The King applauded, praising all my Musketeers, some of them by name, asking in a cheerful voice to be taught a few of those moves, but I only growled.

Louis walked to me to shake my hand, speaking about his high expectations for this afternoon, telling me how good a choice I’ve always been, but I only bowed.

 

 

Young D’Artagnan, obviously pleased with himself, strode towards me as soon as the King walked away, but I didn’t even spare a word for him. I marched to Armand instead, blinded by rage and a pain I couldn’t name yet, only stopping inches from his feet, forcing both that cursed Dutchman and himself to look up at me.

 

 

-“Yes, Captain Treville?” Richelieu muttered, mildly annoyed.

 

 

I didn’t plan anything. I think I just wanted to punch Huygens to death and grab Armand’s collar. I coughed, thinking fast, and let out with a rumble in my voice:

 

-“I need an invitation for this afternoon.”

 

The Cardinal just raised his eyebrows, thinking me mad, and as Huygens smiled, opening his mouth to ask something, I shut his mouth with a furious stare.

 

 

-“For my sister.”  I added quickly for Armand. “Charlotte Brieux, born Du Peyrer Treville. I know you still have a few letters on your desk, you just have to fill her name in.”

 

 

Richelieu’s eyes opened wide, and I realized I might have never mentioned my sister in front of him before. Let alone the fact that she obviously gave up a nobility name for a shorter, working-class one, and that I was thus asking Cardinal du Plessis Richelieu to write with his own hand an invitation to the Louvres for a _commoner._

 

I held his disbelieving stare with my chin held high, defying him. After an endless minute, he averted his eyes, dismissing me with an exasperated wave of his hand, mumbling something about the letter being ready around noon.

 

I bowed slowly, hurt and rejection howling in my ears, and as he walked away, politely inviting Huygens to follow him to his study for further analysis of those fascinating maps, my nails dug bruises into my own palms.

 

 

I didn’t think much. I couldn’t, the pain was too strong, boiling in my guts. I didn’t think much, that’s how I am. A war horse. A soldier.

 

 

 

 

_“Remind him those you’re good at”_

I gathered my men in a rough bark, announcing a change of plans.

 

 

-“This afternoon’s tournament was supposed to start with ten-minutes-long swordfight demonstration duels.” I growl at their worried faces. “You were divided into ten pairs, and supposed to take turns in the arena. Well, the plan has changed. It will be each one of you, successively, fighting against the same opponent for ten minutes each.”

 

 

They all gaped at me for a moment, exchanging doubtful glances, some of them stepping back, their leather doublet creaking in nervousness. The wind rushed into the silence, bringing the smell of cake and bread from the Louvres kitchens behind us. It would be noon soon enough.

 

None of them dared to speak up, except of course, quiet, resolute Athos.

 

 

-“Captain, this is insane. That same man will have to fight all of us in turns during more than three hours.”

 

-“And those are demonstration fights for the King.” D’Artagnan adds, slipping into the breach his friend has opened. “We’ll have to fight the best we can. No man could stand _that_ for so long.”

 

-“I’ve seen worse.” I let out, and they all gasp in shock.

 

 

-“What, **_you_** …? But, Captain…” Aramis pleads, and I roar, spinning around to have a look at them all.

 

-“Anyone has something to say about his Captain’s decision?”

 

 

By the look on their faces, _everyone does._

But in fact, no one speaks.

 

Good for them, because this rage, this agony, I don’t know where it will stop.

 

 

-“Eat properly and rest.” I throw at them as I stride back to the Palace. “I expect nothing less than the best you can do today.”

 

 

I leave a tight circle of concerned frowns, and I think I read there, upon those familiar faces, that no matter how efficient I have been on any battlefield life has laid under my feet, today I might have truly _lost my mind._

 

 

 

***  

 

 

** Part Two – Drum Roll. **

 

 

 

I watched him intently, before it all began. I watched him as he sat in the King's tribune, between Louis and the whole Dutch delegation. I watched him arrange those heavy waves of silk around his feet, gently leaning towards Huygens whenever the diplomat asked questions, and replying with soft smiles, pointing at details of the courtyard.

 

I watched that wretched ruby cross hanging in golden sunlight on his ceremonial cloak, the sight of it almost sinful in luxury.

 

D'Artagnan handed me my sword, and I had to look away, but before I did, I made sure I met Armand's gaze at least once. He looked right at me, straightening himself on his seat, lifting his chin up in bitter challenge, just as he did at noon, when he handed me the invitation letter for Charlotte, asking me with a poisonous sneer if I had any other family secret to reveal before desert.

 

There might have been something else than defiance in his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, but I have no idea what, agony was blinding me, agony was howling.

 

_Agony was burning._

 

Just as it burned, twisting in my heart, when I heard young D'Artagnan's panicked whisper, right before he checked the ties of my doublet for the third time today:

 

-”Captain, there is still time for you to revert back to the first schedule. _Please_ , Captain, this is madness.”

 

I growled, pushing him away with the glare of a wild dog.

 

_Agony was raging._

 

Just as it raged, when I heard behind my back the clear voice of my Charlotte, cheering out loud and waving her handkerchief because she has absolutely no notion of etiquette, and not a single care for restraint. She looked dashing, though, in her burgundy dress, her hair carefully braided and curled by hands that couldn't be her own. I looked over my shoulder, met her eyes and she shouted my name, earning herself stunned looks from her high-born neighbors.

 

Armand, dripping with sarcasm as he had been, still gave her a seat at the front row, on the right side of the courtyard, and her bliss was a delight to look at, but I didn't smile.

_Agony was devouring me._

 

 

 

 

I gripped my sword, placed myself right under the King's tribune, bowing without looking, and since that cursed wind brought me nothing else than more chatter from Huygen's voice, I ignored the thundering applause roaring around me.

 

I might have briefly remembered I dreamed of this applause my whole life long, but I didn't think much. Porthos stepped in the courtyard, eyeing me with worry and indecision, and it all began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Remind him those you’re good at”_

Rage is a storm in my chest, as I make a hasty salute, and nod to the officer charged with timing and arbitration.

 

The man switches the hourglass, and the drum rolls, giving me my first round of ten minutes.

 

I growl.

 

 

Porthos' first step falters, and I'll have none of this.

 

 _“Come on! The King is watching!”_ I hiss, and I throw myself at him, giving him two backhands and a thrust, tearing a wide hole in his sleeve. Porthos winces in pain and wounded pride, forgetting everything about concern.

 

He yells and gives me the hardest ten minutes he has never given anyone. He's good, one of my best, and I have to use my dirtiest old tricks to weave out of his immense strength. But when the drum speaks again, he has stepped back almost to the entry, and stares at me like I have turned into a monster.

 

He salutes and leaves, the crowd cheers and stomps. I bow without looking.

 

I stretch my neck, Aramis steps in. Salute. Nod. Drum.

 

Sword fight isn't Aramis' best, but he is definitely the brightest of all. He rushes forward, starting with a quick combination of the four best moves he knows, forcing me two steps back, and cutting a neat gash into my thigh.

He offers no gift, no compromise. Maybe he's mad at me. Maybe he understands.  


I hear Louis gasp in admiration, and I swear to God if I hear _one word_ from this Dutchman _..._

 

I mostly protect myself until Aramis has played all his cards, and I know when, because I know them all. When he's done, I knit an ugly smile, and harass him until I slash his neck. Blood trickles down his collar, and he whimpers, almost in heartbreak. He stumbles, his left knee hits the floor, and just as I'm about to do something filthy, the drum rolls, and I slide away from him, too dazed by anger to chastise myself.

 

 

As the first hour ends, I have become a machine, as I have been once or twice so long ago, in those battles that lasted for a whole week. I remember the smell of thick grass in springtime, soiled in blood and gunpowder. I see flashes of the hills of Collioure, covered in corpses as by a coat of fresh snow, and I hear the sound of horses dying.

 

 

One of my best cadets, skilled but with no idea of what's going on, considers today as his time to shine and thrusts his blade deep into my shoulder. I yelp, and I think I hear Charlotte shrieking. I remember the cannons of Clérac, the day a General's severed head rolled at my feet into the sand. I hear applause, I smell wildfire.

 

I taste blood, but I don't care.

 

 

As the second hour ends, my eyes are blurred, and breathing requires a focus I can't afford. Every muscle in my body aches or shudders, and the worlds shrinks to my sword, the weak points of the man facing me, and the rolls of that drum.

There is no energy, nothing left to burn in my body. If I move, it is by rage alone, by a higher force, crushing my bones, squeezing my chest.

 

After five Musketeers and cadets, whose names I don't even remember right, young D'Artagnan steps in, and the sheer suffering in his kind eyes snaps me out of my madness for a second. I exhale a shaking sigh, dizziness quickly conquering the ground anger has left, and I think I want to turn towards Armand. But without rage, I'm nothing but an exhausted man, and all I can do is twitch my head slightly. The timing Officer sees it as a nod, and the drum rolls.

 

Fury takes over in a second, out of pure instinct, as hunting dogs dribble at the sound of horns. I rush towards the young man, and he's not my boy anymore.

He's a body two inches smaller than mine, and with still a lot to learn.

 

He's kneeling in five thrusts, and I growl something harsh about him being a disgrace to the King's eyes. A flash of hurt passes on his smooth face, and D'Artagnan cries as he cuts a deep wound into my arm, wincing at the sight of my hand twitching in pain. “Captain”, he whispers, “please stop”, and I send him rolling on the floor with three of my nastiest moves, those I still need to teach him.

 

 

 

Salute, bow. Another one. Nod. Drum.

 

 

 

The last thirty minutes are a blur. I don't remember much. How many men, I can't afford to count. My bows are stiff and painful, my nods weak and shivering. I taste copper, I smell leather and sweat. The sand of the courtyard is beaten and abused by boots and knees, sticking to my wounds in ugly yellow patches.

 

The sound of my heart is almost louder than the drums, and I could have been fighting for a whole year. Something keeps me alive, something keeps my fingers around my sword, and I have no idea what, if not insanity and pain.

 

All I know, is that by chance or by design, the last man to fight me is the best of them all. Athos steps into the sand, and silence falls around us both. There's nothing left in me, nothing left to burn, I'm nothing more than an empty shell for my anger, my rage. I don't know what the King says, I don't know what Charlotte does, I can't look at Armand now.

The world has shrunk to a pair of swords and four boots in the sand.

 

Athos salutes, watching me with quiet intensity, and if he rushes to make our blades clang a few times as soon as the drum rolls, I know it's a lie. I know those moves, those combinations. This is the usual Thursday training suite for cadets, something we have rehearsed so often it's basically carved into our fingertips. Left, left, right, thrust.

Step back, left, right.

 

I frown at him, while my body, without question, without a twitch, follows his moves like we're dancing an old quadrille. He doesn't react. Step to the left, thrust, backhand, thrust.

 

 

I frown at him, unable to spare the breath to ask him why, until my legs just give up on me, both of them, in a heartbeat. I gasp for air, my whole body crushed by spasms, a veil of darkness falling in front of me.

 

Then, I understand.

 

I was finished, and he saw it. He was merely giving a show, making the crowd believe I was still able to fight while I was only dancing to his lead.

 

After all, in spite of it all, my dear boy was protecting me.

 

 

 

I'm on my knees, and I wonder why I can't get up. I look down, and there isn't an inch of leather that isn't covered in sand and blood. Is that all mine?

I watch Athos' face, his features closed like a prison door, his sword keeping up with the ballet of training moves, while all he'd need to put me down would be a slight thrust on my left. I can't even lift my free arm.

 

 

Athos counts the minutes better than I do, because he seems to know when it's about to end.

 

He superbly pretends to trip on my pathetic half-thrust, and we roll on the ground together like hounds. But his hand between our chests isn't there to strike, it's there to grab my doublet tight, and haul me up to my feet with him as he gets up.

By the roaring applause I think I get a glimpse of, the crowd thinks I got up by myself.

 

It'll be over soon, and my dear boy stares at me again, eyeing me from head to toe. A brief, yet intense rush of sheer admiration twitches around his quiet eyes, replaced by the fond exasperation a father would have for a stupid, stubborn son.

He has a quick look for the King's tribune, and subtly rolls his eyes. He winks with his right eye, and my blurry mind recognizes it as the signs we use for training. He drops his guard one inch to the right, _come on_ , his bright eyes say.

 

Thank you, my lips mouth in silence.

 

I growl and give three thrusts to his right, and he welcomes them with a perfect sound of surprise, swaying backwards, kneeling fast. I'm standing, he's on the ground, drum roll, silence.

 

 

 

The unholy stillness lasts for three heartbeats, and the thunder unfolds. The crowd cheers, from the valets to the highest Officer, and trumpets blare a glorious hymn.

 

I shake my head, trying to push the mist of pain away. But anger is leaving me, as sand between my fingertips, and it won't be long before I crumble on the ground.

I blink a few times, waiting for my vision to clear a little, then I slowly turn towards the King's tribune, and I give the best bow I can still manage, which is not much, I fear.

 

The first words I hear are Louis'.

 

“Truly, Captain, you are incredible.” He breathes, stunned respect is his young voice.

 

After that, rumbling comments from the Dutchmen.

After them, gaps and whispers from the crowd.

 

But there's only one voice I want to hear.  
Only one face I want to see.

 

 

I look up, and lock my eyes into Armand's.

 

 

 

He's standing. Truth be told, everyone is standing.

But Armand doesn't shout and cheer like everyone else. He doesn't even applause, he doesn't even speak.

 

Armand glares at me with a fury ten times wilder than my own, his back stiff, his hands clenched together on his waist. The storm in his dark eyes is unbearable, and if I focus a little harder, I could almost swear his cheeks are wet.

 

Anger is leaving me, my mind slowly shuts down, and I feel more than I see my men surrounding me on the courtyard, all of them acclaimed by the crowd. My stare only drifts along the folds of Richelieu's velvet cloak, all the way to his feet, where it curls around him like an obedient snake. I smile, I don't know why.

 

I smile, my dear Armand.

_My magnificent trouble._

 

But as I meet his eyes again, he doesn't smile at all.

 

I don't understand. _“Remind him those you’re good at”,_ she said.

 

 

Haven't you seen, Armand?

He said I am _incredible._

 

 

 

As my men bow one last time and gently pull me backwards to the exit, I catch a glimpse of burgundy on my right, and inside that nest of precious fabric, the strong body of my Charlotte, her face drenched in tears, her mouth tense with worry.

 

Her clear, clever eyes go from me to Armand and back with stunned disbelief, and I see the slow realization on her face just before I am pushed inside the armory tent next to the courtyard.

 

_She knows. God, she knows._

 

 

After that, my head hits the fresh grass as I fall like a dead man, and I fear no more.

 

 

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

** Part Three : The Way of the World. **

****

 

My eyes snap open to the burning bite of alcohol against my naked shoulder. I cry out in dazed pain, and a soft, though forceful hand around my wrist steadies my arm in a tight grip.

 

-”Oh, calm down, you rabid hound, it's just me.” Charlotte's voice grumbles, and her face appears through a thick smoke of exhaustion.

 

I am lying on a makeshift cot in the middle of the armory tent, wide racks of muskets and swords standing at my sides, the gentle yellow sunlight playing with the red and blue fabric above my head. From afar, somewhere beyond the quiet bubble of the tent, I hear cheering, applause, metal clanging, and the small grunts of duels.

 

The tournament.

 

I mumble something senseless about duty, and move to stand, but a firm arm pushes me back down, soft white skin enhanced by carefully rolled sleeves of burgundy velvet.

 

_God, did I stain her dress?_

_She'll kill me if I have._

 

I look up at Charlotte as she closes my bandage and my shirt, patting my head twice, and gets up to inspect my doublet with a resentful frown. I timidly test my legs, my arms. I can move, but I am stiff as a broomstick. My head's spinning, and there's sand in my mouth.

 

Flashes of the fight return to me in loops, and I'm not overly proud of myself. I know I should speak, but I only cough, looking around for some water. Just as I sit up in a wince, Charlotte throws a leather flask at my chest, ignoring my huff of pain with an elegant shrug. She brushes the sand off my doublet and lays it down carefully on a chair nearby, with my coat and weapons. Before she bends down to clean my boots, she lets out bitterly between clenched teeth :

 

-”Your men told me you're expected to appear at the end of the tournament to hand the price to the winner and shake the King's hand, looking like you haven't almost killed yourself in the _stupidest_ showoff a grown-up man could come up with. So drink up, breathe, and don't bloody move until you're called.”

 

 

I uncork the flask in uneasy silence and comply, because trust me, this is the wisest move to make. I don't bother searching for anything to say. Frankly, I don't think I'll find anything clever in ten days, and after all, I know she'll speak her mind without any prompting anyways.

_And that she bloody does._

 

-”Your men only left because they had a tournament to fight” She grunts over her shoulder. “They wanted to call a physician, but it would mean revealing how wounded you actually are, you moronic donkey, and I suppose you don't want any of that. So I said I'd take care of you. I had to show them _your dear Richelieu_ 's letter to prove my name, because you never even spoke to them about me _once_ , you ungrateful bastard. They were all looking at me like I was the ghost of Christmas past !”

 

 

I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, because there are too many reproaches in one speech for me to handle. There's bread and cheese on a tray on the floor next to the cot. I don't know who it was meant for, but my apologies. I snatch it and take a bite. I wish I could look outside. I think I hear Aramis shouting, and I hope he remembered to lift his backhands more.

 

I wish I could get out of that bubble of peace where my trial has taken place, but the judge isn't done yet.

 

My biggest crime is still to be discussed.

 

 

She slams my clean boots on the grassy ground, throws away the brush she was using, pats her dress with a growl, and resolutely pushes my legs aside to sit on the cot next to me, so close I feel her angered breath against my cheek.

 

She glares at me for a while, and my chewing slows.

 

She glares some more, and I swallow hard.

 

 

Eventually, the hammer falls, and she spits, rancorous:

 

-”And all that mess, for bloody _Richelieu?_ ”

 

I lower my eyes. Armand's taxing system has been harsh with the traders of Béarn, and the souls that have any kind of respect for him there are to be counted on one man’s fingers.

 

He's barely been there in person twice, and hasn't spoken a word to the people except for a botched Mass in Pau ten years ago. How could I make her understand?

Where should I even start?

 

-”We both fought in La Rochelle... ” I try. “He... he was, you know...”

 

 

She raises her hand, silencing me, flinching my reasons away.

 

-“Spare me the romance, Jeannot.” She hisses. “I’m mad at you. Why the hell did you do that to yourself just now? You could have died, you reckless idiot!”

 

 

 

I sweep a helpless glance around the tent. My skin burns, my muscles ache, and I wish I could get away from Charlotte’s heavy stare.

 

I wish I could just watch the tournament. I know I wouldn’t be allowed to shout any kind of advice, but still. My men are fighting, I should be there, _God, the fool I have been._

 

 

 

 

But my judge is glaring at me with eyes too close to our mother’s, too close to my own.

 

 

So what I do instead, is mumble a short tale about Constantijn Huygens. A diplomat, a writer, a poet. Young, educated, wealthy as a Lord, bearing gifts of silver and ruby. Brilliant, sophisticated, asking wise, enlightened questions, bringing maps and holy books. Then, a shorter story about an ordinary man called Jean, who never cared about anything else than horses and guns, who just wanted to fight the whole world, and ends up surprised that he grew _old_. Aching, bitter, he counts, by now, all the things he never cared to read about, and how they could have filled the terrifying void all this fighting will leave in him, once he’ll be too old for his own sword.

 

When I’m done, I look away towards a rack of muskets, sighing at how they could speak of my whole life better than I would.

 

 

Charlotte doesn’t talk right away. She gauges me with narrowed eyes instead, searching for wrinkles around my eyes, counting the grey hair around my ears. She has a pensive look towards the opening of the tent, and finally exhales, patting my knee with a little more delicacy maybe.

 

-“This is the way of the world, _frérot_. No matter how much you achieve, after a while, there’s always someone barging through the door with something you didn’t do, something you don’t have.”

 

She bends down to the plate, picks up a chunk of bread, cuts a slice of cheese and hands me both with a tiny, furtive smile.

 

-“We can’t be everyone, Jeannot. We can’t be everything. Each time you make a choice, you renounce to every other path. You have made your own choices from Troisvilles to this very day, and you have become the greatest fighter of them all. You still are, you just proved it, you raging maniac. Even if some of your men have been easy on you today, that’s because they owe you the respect of legends. You are, as the King of France said, _incredible_.”

 

 

Outside, a thunder of applause roars in the air. The winner is named. I stretch my neck to try and peek through the opening, but all I see is the courtiers’ backs and a small piece of the King’s tribune. We’re out of time.

 

Charlotte lets out a high-pitched string of curses, and jumps up to fetch my uniform.

 

While she helps me put it on, brushing it some more on the way, she briefly kisses my brow, her eyes suddenly shimmering, and whispers in fondness and pride:

 

-“ Be at peace. You will be remembered; Jean du Peyrer Treville. Your name will be carved in history as one of the bravest, forevermore. And if _that_ is not enough for that mastermind in red of yours, well, he can look for a better offer in Hell.”

 

 

 

With that, she pushes me outside with a last check of my coat, throwing me with a small laugh before I stride away:

 

 

-“Anyway, next time you need to prove your worth as this man’s Mighty Knight, try something less dangerous perhaps. Have you tried flowers? A nice poem maybe?”

 

 

 

I let out a hearty laugh at first, but as I walk to the tribune, it slowly turns to a calculating frown, I have no idea why.

 

 

 

 

***   

 

 

 

****

** Part Four: Delval **

 

 

 

 

 

The first face I look for is the winner’s.

 

I would have bet my monthly wage on Athos or Porthos, and I hurry to enjoy one of those overjoyed smiles. But in the middle of a tight, cheering circle of Musketeers stands Delval, a bulky young man from Reims, who joined the regiment eight years ago. He lets himself be praised and clapped on the back, looking twice as disbelieving as I must be.

 

And by the drained and relieved look Athos and Porthos give me as I walk close on relatively steady legs, I understand why none on my favorite boys won. 

 

They were too bloody concerned about my old skin to focus, that’s why.

 

I sense their scorching-hot blame on my back as I break the circle to congratulate Delval, and I know my trial isn’t over.

 

 

But I can’t care for long, because the second face I look for is Armand’s, and it is nowhere to be found.

The King goes down the stairs of his tribune, a few Officers and the Dutch delegation following close, but Richelieu has disappeared. My frown deepens.

 

I still bow, smiling, when Louis Hands me the sachet of gold meant for the winner. I let out a few sentences Armand prepared for me about duty and pride, quite easily, as he made me repeat them ten times. _“Because”_ , as he said, _“if a speech of more than ten words is needed, I’d better carve it into your brain myself.”_

 

I laughed, at the time, and since we were alone, I passed my hand into his silver hair.

 

 

I frown, now, my mouth thin and tense, as I hand the gold over to Duval. The men cheer, the crowd applauses one last time, and as the King is called to the Palace for supper, everyone gently starts to scatter and slide away, leaving the courtyard to a few boots in the battered sand.

 

 

Long minutes come and go before I stop searching the dissolving crowd for a delicate figure in red silk.

 

 

 

 

*** 

 


	3. What rhymes with "silver"?

 

 

 

 

**Part One: Lost Gold and** **Crushed Hopes.**

 

 

 

They gave me time to replace my bandages and clean my wounds before they knocked on my door, and somehow, I’m thankful.

I hastily put on the only clean shirt I have left, throw the wet rags soiled with blood in a basin and desperately pretend to be reading reports when I growl to let them in.

 

 

I haven’t seen much of them since the tournament, too busy making sure Charlotte was escorted back to the Boniface house by two cadets, and hesitating about the right person to ask where the Cardinal had gone. I chose Marchal Toiras, because he couldn’t possibly imagine I cared, and because he positively ran towards me during supper at the Louvres, barking tributes to my insane demonstration of earlier.

 

-“Old Treville!” he laughed, “I knew you still had it in you! Twenty men, Good Lord! So much for retirement, eh?”

 

I smiled, trying to ignore the fact that he was clapping my wounded shoulder.

 

-“The Musketeer regiment still has glorious hours ahead” I muttered, “I am glad we could show it to the Court once more.”

 

-“The King is still bragging about it as we speak!” Toiras cheered, and I selected my words carefully.

 

-“A pity the Cardinal wasn’t there to be persuaded just the same.” I whispered, throwing him a veiled glance.

 

-“Hah!” The Marchal of France exclaimed, disdain dripping from his open, honest voice. “Your own demonstration has been enough for sure: he fell ill right after you left. He excused himself for a headache, you see, and ran to his chambers, white as a sheet! You know how it is with the Red Man, Treville. Always about to crumble to pieces, yet never bloody _dying_.”

 

 

I didn’t smile, I just nodded with a tense jaw, but I chose Toiras wisely, because he hates Armand so deep he never doubted my question came from anything else than resentment. 

 

Would it be the same for my best men?

 

 

 

I watch them step into my office, all four of them as inseparable birds of mischief, and I swallow my uncertainties with a frown.

 

-“What is it?” I grunt at their closed faces, but they don’t reply. They just stare.

 

Of course _, of course._

They all could have done a few good things with the gold they didn’t win because of me.

 

 

I slowly put down the report I wasn’t reading and lay both my hands on my desk, watching for a while the scarred skin of my fingers. Such a great move of mine, really.

My best boys saw the gold pass under their nose, Charlotte knows everything and won’t let me go about it for years, and now Armand, instead of falling into my arms, swept off his feet by my skill and my strength, is so upset he’s ill again. I know the fits of migraine he gets from emotion alone. They’re the worst.

 

_Great strategy, Treville, well done._

_A bloody complete_ _**disaster.** _

 

-“ I might have miscalculated a few things.” I utter calmly.

 

 

They all huff and roll their eyes; d’Artagnan throwing his hands in the air. I wince. _I know._

 

-“You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone, Captain”, Porthos pleads after a while. “You have a record of victories and glorious deeds every one of us can only dream about achieving in a lifetime.”

 

-“Not saying that you’re old, of course.” Aramis cuts in, almost stomping on Porthos’ foot, who curses under his breath and lowers his eyes.

 

I growl.

Of course, they all think that’s why I did it. They all do, even Toiras. And maybe it’s true, after all. Maybe some part of me wanted to push back the years, to hunt for the glories of my younger days.

But they don’t need to know the biggest reason I almost sent myself to Val-de-Grâce is because I felt compelled to conquer my lover back from the charms of a poet.

 

My lover, _Du Plessis Richelieu._

Who is so furious at me it pushed him into _sickness._

 

I groan.

I rub my face into my hands, and send them away with a tired nod.

 

Their gold is gone. So is my hope. _We’re even._

 

 

 

They all run off, except Athos, who never talks for long, but never misses much neither. He stays behind, closing the door upon the others, and watches me with raw focus. I hold his gaze, but my fingers twitch.

 

-“Are you all right, Captain?” He just asks, and I feel myself paling in a heartbeat.

 

 

 

No, I’m not alright. I am _disgraced._

 

 

My love, my choice, he wouldn’t even look at me now, while young, educated Huygens is still in the palace to pour wisdom and delicacy in his morning tea.

 

_Armand._

I never offered him anything.

I never wrote him anything.

 

 

“ _Have you tried flowers? A nice poem maybe?”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

I look straight into Athos’ bright eyes with restrained anguish and let out without thinking:

 

 

-“What rhymes with ‘ _silver_ ’? “

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Two: Heartless Moon.**

 

 

 

 

 

_As I gaze at this heartless Moon_

_My feet buried into red mud,_

_Around me, comrades sing the tune_

_Of duty taking their last blood._

 

 

Maybe it’s a bit dark.

 

If I am to write something nice about him, perhaps I shouldn’t talk about war again.

God, what else could I talk about, though, _pastries_?

 

 

I slump back in my desk chair, grabbing a few sheets of paper filled with confused, exasperated scribbling. I fumble through them for the tenth time, tearing most of it in shreds that I throw in the hearth.

 

I gather the less miserable words out of the rest and patch them together, counting syllables on my fingers like a bloody child.

 

 

 

_As I beg for one good reason_

_For battlefields of dirt and flame_

_Hills of corpses, lies and treason_

_The silver Moon whispers your name_

 

 

Oh, God, it’s pathetic.

 

I resist the urge to crush that sheet in a tight ball and burn it too, because frankly, I’ve done that seven times already tonight, destroying everything and starting all over again, only to come out with something just as worthless.

Better face it. In a thousand years, I won’t do any better.

Might as well go with that one.

 

 

 

 

_If moonlight holds me in her claws_

_It’s not because she shines so fair_

_I always look for her because_

_Silver reminds me of your hair_

 

I have to talk about his hair at some point, haven’t I?

Or his eyes.

 

That’s what poems are for.

 

 

Maybe I should praise his wits instead. He never believed me when I complimented him on his face. How wrong he is, he has the most riveting stare I've ever known. Something about the anthracite, or the long eyelashes, I don’t know. Something about how this bastard bloody _uses_ them, above all. He plays them like music.

 

My dear Armand. 

 

I bite my lips, picking up my quill again, writing, groaning, burning.

Writing, moaning, burning.

 

 

_Burning._

 

 

I should be sleeping.

 

 

 

 

_My King’s colors float in glory_

_Upon the lands I won for France_

_But hymns may rise, laudatory_

_I only ask for one more glance._

 

 

 

My back hurts. My shoulder is killing me. My legs are shuddering, God, how long have I been sitting there? I look up through the window, growling at the first grey lights of dawn peeking up above Paris' rooftops. I wince; graze my bandages with my fingertips. I didn't do them half as properly as Charlotte did, and they're already falling apart. I'll have to clean the wounds again, or they'll just start weeping.

 

 

I narrow my eyes, trying to remember the way he laughs, the way he bites his thumb when he reads. I even try to sketch him on one corner of a sheet, but I haven't a shred of talent.

Life would be a bit easier, I guess, if I had a few of his skills. If I was a little more like him, a little less like me.

 

I wouldn’t have made such a mess, and even if I had, I could just knock on his door and talk until he realizes. I could talk, words like soldiers at my service, strategically placed in order and discipline to fight to death until he forgives me. I’d stride into his rooms, and I’d talk.

 

_I’d talk._

 

 

 

Oh, God, he’ll never forgive me.

 

 

Oh Armand if you'd only understand. I've been foolish, I've been blind. Years have come, my dearest love, with greying hair and aching feet. Years will come, my deepest fear, when I won't be a solider anymore. There are days, my torture, where I wish I was a poet, a diplomat, a writer.  
  
  
I only meant to show you I could still be the Knight you once chose.  
I’ve been foolish, I’ve been blind.  
  
  
I can’t afford a jewel, I can’t talk well enough.  
Now all I have left is this absurdity.

 

 _“Have you tried flowers? A nice poem maybe?”_  
  
  
My quill laments as it scratches the last sheet of paper, and I forget to watch the night die.  
  
Whimpering, burning.  
I should be sleeping.  
  
  
  
_If you would deign to come closer_  
_And lay on me merciful eyes_  
_I’d have gold and I’d have silver_  
_I’d leave the Moon to her own skies._

 

Dawn has come now, and it would be pointless to go to bed. I barely have time to take care of my wounds, morning training starts in one hour.  
  
I stare at my last sheet of paper, holding all of my words. The surviving words of a massacre of lines, a slaughter of verses. I literally warmed up my office the whole night long burning nothing but failed sentences.  
And whatever's left alive, I fear, doesn't sound like it could stand his acute stare.  
  
Will I really just hand this _rubbish_ to him?

 

 

 _"Have you tried flowers? A nice poem maybe?”_  
  
  
  
I sigh, getting up with a sharp cry of pain.  
Wise, clever Charlotte.

  
  
Too bad I never knew what to do with a good piece of advice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**Part T** **hree: Red Helenium.**

 

 

 

 

He likes red. Of course he does.

 

 

 

He likes red, and I have thought about roses.

But roses are sold in the Halles, or in that small booth in the Luxembourg gardens. They're expensive, but it isn't the main issue. The problem is I can't be seen buying _roses_ in public. It took me years to have my men, and the few friends I have left stop questioning me about a wife or a mistress, and I'd die before it starts over again. I could sneak up in the Halles at dawn, I could wear another hat.

 

But I'd rather not take any risks at all.

 

 

There is a large field I know, a few miles south of Paris. It takes a one-hour ride to get there, but the area is deserted at this season. The field is a wilderness, and we are two good weeks past harvest. I won't meet a soul.

 

 

And I distinctly remember this endless pool of bright, sturdy red wildflowers, catching my eye as I came back from Clérac with a bullet in my arm last year.

 

 

All I need is to cut a handful of them, hide it in my coat, run straight to the Louvres, and lay it all, flowers and paper alike, on his messy desk.

Do I have any other choice? I failed at everything else, I can’t afford a gift, I can’t talk well enough, and Huygens is still in the Palace, his words like pearls and his hair like ebony.

 

It couldn't be worse, anyways.

 

 

_It couldn't be worse._

 

 

 

 

I ride south, trying not to think too much, because if I focus one minute more on the irrationality of what I am doing, I'd just throw my writing in the Seine, turn around towards my office, lock myself up there and wait for Armand to forget me.

 

 

I find the field, but no matter how long I ride around it, the flowers are not there. Nothing more than a few scattered dots in five hundred acres, and God, it'll take me a whole day to cut my miserable handful.

 

I dismount, suddenly very, very tired, and pick up the closest flower with a ragged sigh.

I think it's called _red helenium._

 

It was in one of the few books from Charlotte I actually remember.

 _Hah_. I almost hear her sneer behind my shoulder.

 

I tie my horse to a sturdy tree, and step into the field, cursing upon my misfortune, but prepared, like the stubborn Béarn hound I am, to get my handful of flowers, may it take a whole day. By this time in the Louvres, Huygens will have time to speak to Armand for hours during the last buffet, while Richelieu still despises me, and the thought makes me _sick_.

 

But madness has brought me here, might as well finish the deed.

 

 

 

I cut another flower, searching around for a third with a short disbelieving whimper; did I dream this endless pool of red, though it haunted me for weeks after Clérac?

 

Did I dream?

 

 

-”Are you a Musketeer?”

 

 

I jump and turn around, my hand already upon my sword, to stare at a young redhead of seven at most, a peasant's son no doubt, wearing rags and clogs. His wide, curious eyes, made from unholy shades of green, inspect me from head to toe with obvious wonderment.

 

I cough, instinctively tilt my hat, and nod.

 

-”I am.”

 

The boy exhales a low whistle, sliding around me through the wilderness with amazing ease to marvel at my uniform. I clench my teeth, tempted to run off, before I remember this boy is unlikely to spread any rumor up to the heart of Paris. He gasps then, pointing at the white belt around my waist.

 

-”You're the Captain!” He wheezes in excitement. “My uncle has a large book with pictures of soldiers, I know the Musketeers by heart, all of them!”

 

He finishes his circle and ends up facing me again, an ecstatic smile splitting his lively face.

 

-”I want to be a Musketeer! They're the bravest, the noblest of them all! Death to the Habsburgs! Glory to the King!”

 

And with that, he twists his hand in the air, mimicking a few sword moves with an almost correct legwork. I huff a small laugh at that shimmer in his eyes. I've seen that glint somewhere.

 

I've seen it a hundred times.

Every day, in my training courtyard.

 

 

 

 

The boy spins and jumps for a while before he stops, out of breath, having smashed to the ground a dozen enemies of wild bushes and bramble.

 

-”But father says farmers have no hope of becoming the King's guards.” He muses sadly, and I roll my eyes to the clear blue sky.

 

Of course, that same old nonsense again.

I gently kneel to watch him at eye level, give a wide smile to his efforts, and whisper with all the faith I can pour in my own voice:

 

-”My best men were born Musketeers. No matter how poor, no matter how far. If you want to fight for your King, my boy, then nothing will stop you.”

 

And then, just to prove a point, I draw out my sword, spin it around and hand it to him, handle first.

 

The boy bursts in joy, grabbing the sword with reverence, and watches it swirl in his hand as if it could replace the very sun.

_Well, my boy, in a way, it can._

 

 

 

I watch him move the blade for a while, wincing every time he nearly cuts bits off himself, but unable to ruin his bliss. I have seen that rapture, I have seen that pride.

 

Every day in my courtyard.

 

 

At some point, though, the boy freezes, sword mid-air, his bright green eyes fixed upon my left hand.

 

-”Do you like the red flowers?” He asks, and I curse out loud. I almost forgot. I look down at my hand with a quick surge of shame, but it's too late to play the fool. I nod once more.

 

-”They're enchanted” he declares firmly. “That's why they never grow in the same place twice. Is it for your wife?”

 

You see, sometimes, I'm tired of lying. And to be honest, I'm _exceptionally tired_ today.

I shake my head.

 

-”It's for a man.” I let out.

 

The boy narrows his eyes at me, obviously sorting through all the explanations his rich imagination provides him.

 

-”Is he dead?” He finally inquires.

 

-”No.” I laugh.

 

-”Is he a great man?”

 

 

I pause, surprised. I ponder, but not for long. I nod, confident.

 

-”The greatest of them all.” I declare.

 

 

The redhead smirks, strangely satisfied with my answer, and hands me back my sword with mild regret before he beckons me with his slender hand.

 

 

-”Follow me then.” he says, darting out towards the woods.

 

 

He makes me run and creep and crawl for half an hour before he guides me, easy and self-assured, to a large clearing between tight packs of oaks, and the smell grabs my throat before I even see them.

 

The Helenium.

 

Thousands of them, covering the clearing like rich living velvet stretched on the ground, hissing in secret under the scarce, golden light the oaks allow inside. As we step in, insects and pollen rise up in a messy dance, and we are warned by the high trees that we’re only there by their leniency.

 

The boy just points at the clearing, then seems to forget about me for a while, running for frogs and bumblebees as I silently pick up my handful of red wildflowers. I do a lousy job at that, of course, cutting too short, cutting too much. I grit my teeth _,_ don’t think, _don’t think._

I even up the stems with my sword, and step back on my own footsteps with a sigh, because after all, the high trees are still watching.

 

 

The young redhead smiles at me and spins around to escort me back to the field without further questioning.

 

As I untie my horse, he strokes the brown mare for a while, and I feel the need to thank him a little more by telling him to work hard and buy himself a sword. ‘If you give it all your heart’ I declare, ‘You’ll be ready one day. Find the Musketeer garrison in Paris. If I am still around, I’ll remember you.”

 

 

He grins more than ever , his eyes already gone ten years from now, into those dreams of wars and glory I used to live for, sitting on that rooftop in Troisvilles with Charlotte at my side.

 

I mount, sighing, hiding the flowers in my cloak, and as I spur my horse towards Paris, the boy just shouts with a knowing smirk:

 

-“They will wilt once you cross the Seine if your feelings aren’t returned!”

 

 

 

I frown and stare at him for a while over my shoulder, about to ask him what other wonders those supposedly enchanted flowers do, but there isn’t the slightest hint of doubt in his bright, innocent eyes. After all, the forests of Ile-de-France used to be wild and dark, filled with magic that is yet to be explained, before Paris, before the Kings and the One God.

 

Really, not so long ago.

 

 

 

 

 

I won’t admit it, I won’t utter a word. Not under torture, not under Question.

But as I crossed the first bridge of the City, over the shimmering waters of the Seine, I might have spared a glance for the red Helenium, sighing in relief as their petals stood proud under the safety of my cloak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was the cute chapter.  
> Next update on tuesday : be ready for the reason why I rated this shit "M"


	4. The Colors of France

 

 

**Part One : Colors of France**

 

 

 

-“Armand, open that door.”

 

 

No sound, no move.

I know he’s there, I know for sure. There is candlelight coming through the narrow slit under the secret door to his apartments, I smell his herbal tea even from where I am, and I am certain I heard his footsteps on the wooden floor. 

 

But the door is locked from the inside again, and though I knocked ten times already, I literally  _sense_ his fierce, stubborn refusal.

 

I sigh, looking around at the damp, cold corridor heading out of the Louvres behind me, the ancient, damaged walls creeping into the dark in absolute silence. I’ve been here for half an hour, and my hands are freezing. 

 

-“Armand.” I call, almost too low to be heard.

 

 

I look down at the flowers in my hand. If they aren’t given water, soon they will lower their heads in defeat, and how fitting it all would be. I huff a sad, short laugh, and step backwards until my back hits the corridor wall, then I gently let myself slide to the floor. 

 

I’m tired, I’m miserable, and though I never capitulated in any kind of war, this one might very well be the end of me.

 

 

Silence falls, and it could swallow me whole for all I care.

 

 

Silence falls, and I don’t know for how long.

 

 

 

Except that after a while, candlelight is covered by the twin shadows of naked feet, I hear the smallest of scratches against the door, and in the dim light I see the lock slowly twist open. The doorknob softly turns, and the panel slides open, giving out a glimpse of his bookshelf. 

I jump up, ignoring the sharp pain in my shoulder, and step inside with an anguished frown.

 

He’s there, retreating back from me with his eyes on the floor, wearing nothing more than a thin linen shirt, his red brocade dressing gown thrown over his shoulders. All thick curtains have been drawn in his rooms, chasing morning sunlight away. His tall frame is only lit by the hearth, and the fragile flames of three candelabras on the mantelpiece. He doesn’t look at me once. He tightens his dressing gown around himself, and painfully slides to the armchair in front of the hearth, where he is likely to have spent those last twelve hours. 

 

He sits there, sluggish, gathering his slender legs against himself, and carefully lays his head against the soft velvet of the armchair, as if any harsher move would shatter it to pieces.

 

 

God. That headache is a  _bad_ one.

I don’t speak. I know how useless It would be.

 

 

I lay down my coat on a table nearby, I put down my weapons. I discard everything heavy, including my boots. With that, I soundlessly walk to the hearth and kneel on the floor, right at the armchair’s feet, disposing the flowers on his lap. 

 

His eyes widen, and time slows down its course for him.

 

His hands unclench from the lapels of his gown to hover above the Helenium for a while. His delicate fingertips graze the soft petals of red wine, and his dazed stare sweeps over me with a bitter mix of suspicion and amazement.

 

I don’t speak. I know I’d only ruin everything.

 

 

 

I lower my head, sitting at his feet like a dog at his master’s side, hoping he will get the message. I only move to fetch his empty cup and shift towards the hearth to refill it with warm tea, laying the fine porcelain upon a stool on the other side of the armchair. Then I sit back on the floor, staring at the flames, giving him time.

 

His breathing is shallow and uneven. From what I’ve seen of his skin, he has just taken one of those burning-hot baths he uses as last resort. He’s shivering, pale as a ghost, deep shades of blue around his eyes. 

 

Fever, no doubt.

 

 

 

It sometimes goes this far. He genuinely fainted  right upon the main stairs of the Palace once, when he heard we arrested twenty men from Limousin who were plotting his death. When the King turned him down for the signature of that treaty five times in a row last year, he spent two days lying in his bed.

 

When Father Joseph  died, it lasted for a week, and half of the physicians thought he was just letting fever finish him off.

 

 

That’s the way he is. His mind doesn’t wrap itself around a feeling, an idea. It  _dives_ into it, it  _drowns_ . It spirals up, it spirals down. Straight at Heavens, straight back to Hell. He has always been, and always will be bloody  _extreme_ .

I often suspected him to be a bit mad, but when you think about it, he is just as insane as most geniuses are doomed to be.

 

I sigh, darting a look up at his white, weary face.

_I am in love with_ _a storm._

 

 

 

 

He obviously likes the flowers, but there is something  terrifying about that sheer doubt in his eyes, I don’t know what. He barely touches them, frowning, his lips sealed,  _for God’s sake say something._

 

I watch him, instinctively fiddling with the lower rim of his brocade gown, because the rich texture of the heavy fabric gives me a feeling of warmth, of safety. But I know I shouldn’t believe those lies. 

 

He doesn't speak a word, watching me, observing,  _expecting._

 

 

Oh, alright, you red-clad  _tyrant._

 

 

I growl, pull out that twice folded sheet of paper from my doublet, and drop in on the flowers.

He has a small start, throwing me a questioning look. I shrug, averting my eyes, gesturing for him to unfold that miserable page and get over with my doom.

 

He does. I don’t even have to look at him, I sense his deft fingers handling the paper in the corner of my eyes. Hell, how come I am so bloody scared? There is no weapon, no blade, no gun. This is no war.

 

Just a fevered storm.

 

And yet,  _and yet_ , I grit my teeth, narrow my eyes, awaiting the worst. Hoping, fearing, just like on every battlefield I ever knew, staring into the black mouth of a cannon. 

 

 

Seconds pass, minutes, an eternity of listening to his breathing, before I dare to look up again. I swallow a lump of lead in my throat.

 

 

He stares at the paper, holding it delicately with one of his hands. The other grazes his mouth, and his eyes, if they didn’t let go of their disbelieving awe, are horribly, mercilessly distant. The fire roars in the hearth, and though it’s all too bloody warm in this room, his cup of tea, I’m sure, is getting cold.

 

When he feels my eyes upon him, he slowly turns his head towards me, exhales a short sigh, waving at the sheet and flowers with a nonchalant hand, and breathes:

 

-“Jean, this is  _mediocre_ .”

 

 

 

 

Inside me, something snaps.

_Something breaks._

 

 

 

I get up in a jump, my fists clenched tight upon the urge to punch his mouth, and I stand tall in front of the fire , my gaze locked into his. My shadow creeps up his pale skin, and as my body steals the warmth of the hearth from him, he shudders weakly while I shout: 

 

 

-“Of  _course_ it is, you vicious beast, that’s the first time I ever  _tried_ ! Do you think I had time to practice, do you think I had time to  _compose_ , while this country has been at war for twenty years?  I spent my life in gravel and gunpower, sent to fight like a dog to every corner of France, may it snow or may it shine! When, exactly, did I get one day to sit down and write a few lines about springtime, Cardinal? As the Spanish cannons destroyed the walls of Montauban? As I had to wrap the pieces of my wounded arm together with the shreds of a dead Musketeer’s cloak in Privas? As I ran up the hill of Corbie with a bullet in my leg and twenty men who weren’t half as whole? In Arras, In Nancy? Do you think I had time to search for rhymes,  _Your Eminence_ , bleeding to death at that siege of La Rochelle you designed so  _**beautifully?** _

 

 

He flinches. His eyes falter. It was a low blow,  _I don’t care._

 

 

 

-“No one  _asked_ you to…” He tries, pointing at his lap, but I am too far, too far gone.

 

 

I lean over him, roughly grabbing the collar of his dressing gown, giving him a violent shake, and if my fingers notice how  _scorching_ his skin feels, my mind discards the thought.

 

-“You don’t have to  _ask_ for anything to leave me without a choice, you careless bastard! What else could I do, sit back and watch you pour honey in your voice and fire in your eyes for that Dutch fop over there? Stand silent and useless in the dark corner your bloody Protocol wants me to stand and enjoy the sight of how absolutely  _brilliant_ he sounds; how absolutely  _wealthy_ he looks?”

 

 

He gasps, and realization washes over his wide, dark eyes. A strand of silver hair is stuck to his cheek by soap water and fever sweat, and if my hand is tempted to brush it away, my mind refuses to give in.

 

-“Huygens.” He inhales, wheezing, his bright stare taking in my whole figure. “It was all about  _Huygens_ .”

 

 

He snarls, then, his  fatigued brow knitting into a frown, and stands up, wincing. My paper falls helplessly at his feet, along with a delicate cloud of red flowers. He rips himself free of my grip, and walks away to the table where I left my cloak. If my eyes notice the trembling of his gait, his cold, distant voice only pour oil on my fury.

 

-“Treville, you are an  _idiot_ .”

 

 

 

I growl, rushing towards him, and if it hurts, if it hurts _so bad,_ it may be because it’s true.

I grab his shoulder, spin him around to make him face me, and push him back against the table. It’s easy. He’s so thin. He’s so weak. And yet, that look in his veiled eyes has burned a thousand ships, has crushed a thousand souls. 

 

 

Has nailed my heart upon his coat of arms, so long, so long ago.

 

 

-“ **Yes I am!** ” I yell at his face. “That’s what I’ve become! That’s how far I’ve gone, just to earn your attention! What can I do, as you slide between those walls in hisses of red, your eyes ardent, your speech implacable? What can I do, as you carve the borders of this kingdom with your wits and your quill? What can I do, me, the blunt war horse, the old soldier? What can I do,  _Armand_ , to deserve the slightest touch of your hand?”

 

His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t speak. He just breathes in, stunned, his wide eyes of anthracite roaming all over me. His skin is burning, his legs are trembling. Disheveled strands of silver hair cross his face in elegant brushstrokes. 

 

He’s magnificent.

And I am  _tired._

I still grip his shoulders tight, but I don’t shout anymore. I gently lean over until our foreheads touch, and I whisper, desperate, eyes closed, restrained.

 

 

-“If you don’t care for my sword, if you don’t care for my words, tell me, what can I do? Tell me, just name your price. Point a city on your map, point a name on your list. Give me a horse and an old blade, tell me to bring you back the head of an Emperor. Tell me, my torture, my delight, tell me anything. I’ll pierce a thousand hearts to appease your worry, I’ll burn down fortresses and lands to keep you warm at night, and I’ll wipe your fevered brow with their broken flag. I’d serve you, my France, if only you’d speak to me. I’d deserve you, my love, if you’d only look my way.”

 

 

 

Silence.

 

 

 

 

 

-“Why didn’t you write that?”

 

 

 

I start, looking up into his eyes again. His face has changed. His voice is soft, his breath is warm upon my cheek, and if my ears heard what he just said, my blurred mind cannot process the thought.

 

-“What?” I blurt.

 

-“I said, why didn’t you write  _that_ ?” He pants. 

 

 

And he smiles, for God’s sake he  _smiles_ , leaning back against the table just a little bit more, his thick eyelids throwing a delicate shade upon his hollow cheeks. He smiles, his featherweight hands crawl up my sleeves, settling behind my neck, and suddenly, his need to be  _devoured_ hits me like a punch in the guts. 

 

 

_Oh._

 

 

I waver, halfway between grabbing a handful of his hair and checking him for sings of fever. But though I still have questions about the how, he doesn’t seem to be mad at me anymore, and I’m too damn blissful to hesitate. I dart a hungry look to his soft, parted lips, and crush them beneath mine. 

 

He moans into my mouth, welcoming, no, more than that.  _Eager_ . 

 

His tongue is quick and daring, he tastes like tea and sleeplessness , and his sharp nails already leave marks on the skin of my neck. 

 

 

Red,  _red marks._

 

 

I shift the grip I had on his shoulders to push his dressing gown off him, and it falls with a low sigh upon my own cloak on that table. He gently leans further back, his burning stare beckoning me.

 

Both fabrics of red and blue sing praises to his white skin, and I swear that I have never seen the colors of France more gloriously rendered.

 

I know, I can see that now. 

 

_ This is the flag I always wanted to die for. _

 

 

 

 

 

I dive into the crook of his neck, and he cries out, already loud, already crazed. As he pulls me roughly against him, his thin nightshirt leaves me no doubt about his raw need.

I moan in growing frenzy, feeling myself hardening fast, licking a path down his collarbone, but after a while I still force myself to pull apart. He whimpers in protest, but I shake my head. I inspect his eyes, laying the back of my hand against his forehead, searching for illness, because for God’s sake, I upset him into a fit of  _fever_ , that’s the very reason why I came in here in the first place. 

 

He lets me gauge him for thirty seconds exactly, before he hisses, using one of his slender legs to pull me against his groin once more, lifting his hips like no devil could, burning my sanity on the pyre of his eyes.

 

-“Make love to me now,  _Captain Treville_ ,” he rumbles “or I’ll have you exiled for a year.”

 

 

I comply without a word, because he bloody well could, and because  _I owe him that much._

 

 

 

I gently grab his thighs, lift him up on the table, and I don’t think I’ll take the time to remove his nightshirt. I just open it wide, and slide a hand underneath, feeling my rugged, scarred skin make his inner thighs shudder. He breathes a low moan, gripping my hair to pull me closer, and viciously licks my ear. I grit my teeth upon the ghost of his name.

 

 

He obviously wants to remove my shirt, and I gladly help, until a sharp pain in my shoulder reminds me that the skin of my chest is made of fresh bruises and red wounds. I don’t need to look at them. I see them clearly enough in his dark, worried eyes. 

 

 

His fingertips graze my marred flesh, tears threatening the corner of his eyes again. His breathing dissolves into irregular gasps, and God, no, not now.  I stroke his cheek with a thumb, my other hand still gripping his thigh. I gently thrust against him, making him feel exactly how robust I am, and his pupils widen. 

 

But he still whispers, more scared than resentful:

 

-“I was terrified. I had to watch you hurt yourself, again and again while everyone was bloody applauding, God, Jean you bled into the dust for  _three hours_ .” 

 

I flinch. I know, I know, I have lost my mind. It was written on my men’s faces.

 

 

-“I am sorry, Armand.” I breathe, averting my eyes. “You see, Huygens…”

 

-“…is the representative of a country who will sell France eighty thousand livres a year in silk and spices, and happens to have three  _shipyard manufactures_ .” He cuts in with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you think it’s worth a smile or two?”

 

 

My shoulders drop. I close my eyes,  _fool I have been._

I expect more scorn, more sarcasm, but in his heavy-lidded eyes I only read fondness, made dizzy by arousal. I tentatively squeeze his thigh a bit, and the answering sigh is music to my ears. He pulls at my hair again, with an authority I wouldn’t dare to challenge, breathes into my ear how exactly he wants to be worked open and taken right here, and by the time he’s done speaking my vision has blurred.

 

I lick two of my fingers under his attentive, famished gaze, and he spreads his legs a little, lifting one knee above my unwounded shoulder himself,  _oh, devilish creature_ . I grip his hip with my strongest hand, gently thrust in with the other, and he cries out, laying a firm hand on the table to steady us both. 

 

I do it good, I do the best I can, focused and quiet, breathing his cries like I breathe air. I want him to shout, I want him to shudder, I want to wipe out the memories of yesterday, replace them by warmth and certainties. I change the angle, change the rhythm, give him no peace, no rest, until he’s a mess of moans and spasms.

 

He cries out, he bloody does, and I bite my lips harshly, because though I blindly rub myself against his soft, tender thigh and my pleasure is a wildfire in my guts, I don’t want to miss a second of his. He frowns, he often does, and buries his face in my shoulder to stifle the sounds he makes, because they embarrass him a little. I try to reassure him with a hand into his hair, but it turns to a brutal grip when he pushes my fingers out of him, and guides my leaking cock instead. I obey, I often do, and the impact makes the table creak.

 

 

He’s tight, he’s burning, and I’m not sure I can even breathe. After that, he gets a bit louder, a bit higher, and God, how I live for that sound. I lock my eyes on the embroidered rim of his nightshirt, focusing on his breathing, trying to last longer, but it doesn’t save me at all. I am  _pounding_ him, nothing less, and he’s taking it all. He’s stronger than he looks. Always has been. Why is he frowning? Oh, don’t hide, Armand. Cry out. 

 

Cry out for me.

 

 

I feel him close, tense and shaking, the time is now. I grab his shaft, stroke him almost too slowly, almost too tight, and I pull at his hair to look down at his flushed, ecstatic face. 

 

I feel him close, and before I stroke him over the edge, my mind blank with pleasure, I beg him to keep  those gorgeous eyes open.

 

-“Look at me Armand.” I breathe, and God, he does.

 

He comes, howling, and his eyes boring into mine as they’re blurred by the waves of his orgasm are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

 

I pull him against me as I moan and spend myself inside of him, biting his shoulder to mark him mine once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hold him tight until his breathing calms down, feeling my own pleasure slowly leaving me, replaced by the pulsing pain in my wounds and joints. At some point, he gently unknots his fingers from my back, and gestures for me to pull out. He gasps as I do, and though he's usually very gentle afterwards, this time he does his best not to meet my eyes, I have no idea why. 

He puts his dressing gown back on hastily over his soiled nightshirt, and almost hurries away. Now, that doesn’t look like him at all. Ripped from his warmth, I repress a nasty shiver, watching him walk back to the hearth, and let himself fall more than he kneels next to the scattered flowers. 

 

He gathers them in his slender hands, his head low, a worried frown upon his face. I don’t understand, and I’m beginning to get tired of that feeling. So I quickly put my shirt back on, close my pants and pick up a small pitcher on a buffet filled with water that doesn’t look too old.

 

I kneel at his side and hand it to him. He drops the Helenium in the water, just in time, it seems, to save them from ruin, and quickly moves to stand up,  _oh no you won’t_ . I grab his wrist with a firm hand and whisper:

 

-“What’s wrong?”

 

He shakes his head first, his frown deepening, but he’s too weak to break free from my grasp, and sits back down with a sigh. He gently picks up the paper then, then, folds it back twice, and carefully hides it between two pages of a huge, forbidding volume about the Mesopotamian wars.

 

He bites his lips, choosing his words, then breathes so low I have to lean down to hear him:

 

-“I know I’m not very good, but if you could take the time to  _teach_ me a few things…”

 

I open my mouth to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, but there is only one thing we have done since I came in here, except fighting, and God knows he’s aware how efficient he is at that.

 

He means…

 

_Oh, Heavens, he really thinks…_

 

 

-“Armand, why on Earth would you think you’re not good?” I ask, cupping his face to force his eyes towards me. “Is it something I said?”

 

-“It is something you haven’t said.” He whispers, his voice unsure. “In fact, while I am  _embarrassingly_ loud, you hardly ever… make a sound.”

 

 

I hear my own gasp, but I can’t speak anymore. For the love of God, we’ve been doing this for  _years_ , and he tells me  _**now** _ . I feel helpless rage boiling up in me, and the impulse to shout at him some more is strong, but before I do, I realize I never told him how I adore his cries, how I bite on my own just to listen. I let him with silence, and of course, he never reads silence as anything good. 

 

Before anger speaks, I realize he’s just as crippled with self-doubt as I am, and somehow, it blows my mind.

 

So I finally arrange those wild strands of silver hair, and I speak quietly. I tell him how beautiful he is, how maddening his cries of pleasure are. How I have to seal my lips shut and focus on something plain to last long enough to make him come, or even after all these years, I’d be finished in minutes like a youngster. I praise his hair, since it is right between my fingers. Then, I grab his hands, tell him how elegant they are, compare them to my own tanned, scarred and blunt fingers, and he laughs a little.

I graze, stroke and compliment everything, from his slender neck to his delicate feet. ‘Look how soft they are’ I breathe. ‘They look like they never touched the ground’.

 

I tell him soldiers learn very young to keep quiet, because the only sex they get is carriage doors and back alleys, in regiment barracks, in deserted streets. I exaggerate a bit, but it makes him smile, so that’s good enough. At the end of it all, I kiss him once or twice, and whisper against his lips that if he wants me to be loud he’ll have to take me. ‘I swear you’ll hear me  _shout_ , then.” I promise. ‘Would you like that?’

 

And by the way he whimpers as his grey eyes explode, darkening into pools of night sky, I guess he bloody would.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s only half an hour after that, when we’re both clean and getting dressed, struggling not to touch each other every minute, that he tells me about the closing banquet taking place tonight before the Dutchmen leave, and gently hands me another invitation card for my sister.

 

 

 

-“Who else do I owe the first flowers you ever gave me, and the only poem you’re likely to ever write?” He laughs, a clever glint in his wide eyes. “I only wish to thank her properly.”

 

 

 

I wish I could tell him what exactly he is bringing down on himself by doing that, but I keep my mouth shut, mostly because I almost feel Charlotte’s Pointed Stare on my back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : Red Bastard.**

 

 

 

 

 

Just before we got out of his apartments, Armand let me arrange his formal robes around his waist, explaining with fake nonchalance how he arranged the guests seats for tonight. I was about to say that I couldn’t care less about those flimsy details he loved to drain his mind upon, but I realized he was actually asking me to sit where I was supposed to for once, and I grunted my rebellion.

 

He sighed, rolling his eyes, and let out something like ‘ _don’t you think you owe me that much_ ’, but I still fought back.

 

He hissed, his robes whispering an echo to his exasperation, and I marveled at how fast we clicked back into our old bickering habits, even with the warm blur of pleasure still buzzing in our guts.

But surprisingly, he didn’t sneer, he didn’t snarl. He bit his lips, pondering for a while. Then he whispered that he would move up Charlotte’s seat three ranks up and have her sit at my side if I deigned to remain quietly at the officers’ table.

 

He bribed me into his protocol with a twice bigger break of protocol.  So this wasn’t about his damned rules themselves, it was about me obeying. I agreed with a stunned smile.

 

 

Delighted, Richelieu ordered his own carriage and crew to fetch Charlotte at the Boniface house, and she came back into the Louvres like the highest of all ladies. She still found a way to complain about the fact that they gave her no more than twenty minutes to get prepared, and when I told her I couldn’t tell the difference, she shouted at me, no idea why.

 

 

As we sit side by side between two lieutenants of infantry, she quickly forgets her anger, eyeing at the forty usual dishes a royal banquet is made of with wonder and disbelief.

I was persuaded it would feel like hell to sit still, to refrain from checking doors or watching faces. I was so damn sure I would be unbearable.

 

But to be honest, Charlotte’s genuine, unmasked bliss, and the memory of Armand’s nails on the back of my neck make it all quite easier. I can even watch Richelieu talk smoothly, smile like angels do, gently laying a hand upon he wrist of Lord Constantijn Huygens of Zuylichem, without a hint of pain in my chest. I know Huygens is still younger, brighter, and richer than me, but I barely look at anything else than the silver in Armand’s hair, enjoying how it catches candlelight. 

 

It is strange, how what enraged me to madness yesterday doesn’t even bother me tonight.

 

Maybe I should try and just  _talk_ to Armand every now and then.

 

 

 

 

 

My Charlotte grabs my sleeve from time to time, asking questions, whispering remarks, or simply letting out short cries of utter joy. She pushes food in front of me, trying to keep her voice low, failing admirably, ‘ _For God’s sake Jeannot, taste that thing!_ ’.

I choose for her a fine pheasant leg with the richest, creamiest sauce the King’s master cook has ever produced, and ask for the Officer’s wine. She thanks me with such a sincere, beaming smile that I sense a few courtiers raising their eyebrows at her, because they don’t remember the last time they’ve been half as true.

 

She eats and drinks joyfully, but most of the time, she just stares in rapture at the head table, where the King sits high, the Queen at his left, Armand at his right, surrounded by the richest cloaks of the Dutch delegation. ‘ _I’m fifteen steps from the King of France’_ she breathes at some point, fiddling nervously with her dress. But noticing my fond smile, she shrugs and mutters that she thought he’d be taller.

 

 

I pass a reassuring hand on her shoulder, sweeping a quiet gaze upon the perfect painting that is that Head table, glowing in gold, velvet and firelight. I meet Armand’s eyes, he softly nods, the hint of a knowing smile on his thin lips. He looks healthier, he looks stunning, and I never knew there could be this kind of peace.

 

 

After the banquet, where Charlotte discovered the taste of meringue for the first time with a squeal of delight, we are guided towards the Great Hall for a dance. I almost flee in the gardens for a perimeter check, but Charlotte, crushed by the imposing beauty of the Hall, grabs my arm and leans against me, her wide eyes counting candles above her head.

 

Everyone makes a wide circle around the Hall. The King and Queen find their seats upon a marble platform facing the high windows, Richelieu letting himself fall on a lower seat next to them with the sigh of a man who’s finished a hard day of work. Indeed, the Dutch delegation is now mingling with the guests, strongly intending to have some fun. Diplomacy duties are over. He meets my stare again. One more of those shy, gentle nods of his.

 

Louis claps his hands, the orchestra starts playing, laughter rise high in the Great hall, and my sister sighs in wonder, thanking me again with tears in her voice.

 

I may be smiling like the idiot I am.

_ I never knew there could be this kind of peace.  _

 

 

 

One hour pass, Charlotte filling her eyes with the most beautiful gowns Paris can display, drinking wine in gold-rimmed glasses. I didn’t plan anything more than standing still, as the deal had been sealed with Armand’s protocol, but as my gaze crossed his again, he discretely gestured towards Charlotte, nodding at the dance floor.

 

I shook my head. He raised his eyebrows.

I mouthed “ _never_ ”. He stared some more.

 

 

I rolled my eyes.

 

I invited Charlotte for the next dance.

 

 

I’ll never admit this wasn’t the worst idea. I’m not the best dancer, neither is she, but her dress, she’s right, is gorgeous, and my blue cloak hasn’t been made for war alone. We make quite a picture as we spin together, and I have to growl at five courtiers who bloody look like they could approach my sister. I’m not entirely without pride, as Charlotte, definitely crying by now, whispers with a low tremor in her voice: 

 

-“I danced in the Louvres, with my brother, the Captain. Just wait until I tell Mother.”

 

 

But the highest of praises are Armand’s hands delicately brought against his mouth as he watches us. He does that when he needs to hide his face, and it works for everyone else. But I read his joy as clear as day, along with the dull, distant regret that every law carved into stone forbids him to ever take Charlotte’s place.

 

 

I briefly wonder why God and men made such wonders as candlelight and music, if I can’t take this man’s hand and dance with him tonight, but old soldiers don’t question the rules heir countries are built upon. 

 

No matter how painful, how absurd they are.

 

 

 

The dance ends, and I lead Charlotte to a quieter corner. I look up at the marble platform. The King and Queen are otherwise occupied, and the Cardinal is standing up, stepping down the stairs to the floor of lesser men. He throws me an inquiring glance.

I nod. It’s now or never, after all.

 

 

-”Charlotte,” I whisper, catching her attention. “Someone would like to talk to you.”

 

Her thin eyebrows shoot up, and I point over my shoulders at the Cardinal’s tall figure waiting ten yards behind us. She peeks over my cloak, gasps in horror, and stares back at me.

 

-“Who, the Red Bastard?” She hisses.

 

-“Charlotte.”

 

-“ _His Eminence_ the Red Bastard?”

 

-“ **Charlotte!** ”

 

 

She grunts, but still gauges my eager, worried face for a while. Eventually she raises her hands, rolls her eyes, straightens her dress, and arranges her hair. She gulps nervously, exhaling a sharp sigh, and gestures that she is ready. I thank her with a quick grin, and lead her to Armand, waiting patiently with his hands joined at his waist, just as bloody nervous as she is.

 

Oh God, this might be the closest to introducing him to my family I will ever get.

What else is this, truly?

 

 

Charlotte is ready to judge and sentence, Armand is unsure, charming, willing to please.

 

 

_For Heaven’s sake._

 

 

-“Your Eminence” I declare as neutrally as I can, “Please let me introduce you my younger sister, Charlotte.”

 

With that, Charlotte performs a wretched bow, obviously taught to her by Isabelle Boniface no later than yesterday morning, but Armand is obviously getting used to give credit to the Treville family for  _trying_ . 

 

He nods delicately, murmuring a blessing with his sweetest, most seductive voice.

 

-“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Madame.” He soothes. “I trust my carriage has permitted you a most agreeable journey?”

 

-“A charming journey, Your Eminence” she lets out with a tense smile. “But mostly because it happened in Paris. In Béarn, a carriage with your coat of arms would have been set on fire.”

 

 

I close my eyes, feeling my heart sink into a pool of molten lead.

_Charlotte, for the love of God, couldn’t you just once shut your…_

 

-“Would it?” Armand asks, his face blank, but his hands tightening their grip on each other.

 

I open my mouth to intervene, grab Charlotte by the collar and shove her back outside, but Richelieu subtly shakes his head, looking at her instead:

 

-“The taxes, I suppose.” He voices bitterly.

 

Charlotte nods, bravely holding the Cardinal’s intense, clever gaze.

 

-“Half of the merchants are barely feeding their families” she claims with a firm voice, “and our peasants starve to death every winter.”

 

 

I curse under my breath, moving to pull my sister away, but if Armand looks genuinely upset, it’s not because of her, but because of the truth beneath her words. He looks down, his hands making a short wave of helplessness, and seems to be pondering for a while. Charlotte, obviously taken aback, is watching him with a slight tilt of her head.

 

-“I have always preferred to take the people’s money than to take their blood.” He breathes at some point, and as Charlotte doesn’t seem to understand, he suddenly spins around and beckons us.

 

-“Follow me.” He says.

 

 

 

 

As he leads us to his apartments, I make a point in throwing Charlotte a few burning stares. She flinches, mouthing apologies, Hell, I wish we wouldn’t  _resemble_ each other so damn much.

 

But Richelieu gently invites her in the same study I came in earlier today, and though I am positive Armand checked everything twice, I wince at the raw fear she might know exactly what we have been doing, there, on that table.

 

And I witness, dumbfounded, as the Cardinal du Plessis Richelieu, First Minister of France and high Catholic Church authority, patiently explains each and every dynamic and stake of international politics to the wife of a blacksmith. He talks in brilliant, simple words, unfolding maps, opening books, and builds in less than an hour a fortress of reasons why he raised those taxes upon Béarn and the rest of the country. He hides nothing, from the Habsburgs to Sweden and United Provinces, in fervent speeches and worried frowns, making figures with his hands, spinning around in red silk hisses, and I realize with wonder that Constantijn Huygens didn’t get half as much  _ardor._

 

 

At the end of it all, my Charlotte is gaping a little, her right hand fiddling with the embroidered rim of her corsage, and I could swear she’s about to grab the first rag she finds and start dusting Armand’s desk. She looks up at Richelieu with narrow, confused eyes, as twenty years of visceral hate suddenly crashed against a wall of sound, blatant logic.

The cardinal smiles his most seductive smile then, and he’s so bloody  _anxious_ about her opinion that I wince in sympathy. 

 

 

 

I know the feeling Armand.  _I know the feeling._

 

 

Charlotte still doesn’t speak, and though she can’t fail to see truth in his reasons, her closed face remains very clear upon the fact she’s not ready to like Richelieu all the same.

 

Armand bites his lips, lowering his eyes, obviously searching for one more argument, one more word, anything, God he’s almost shaking, Charlotte, please, _say something nice._

 

 

 

 

I cut in, with no idea of what to say once more, and point a few cities on the last map he unfolded for her, explaining why I was sent there to fight, strengthening Richelieu’s reasoning with my own lifetime of battles, every scar, every wound of mine justified by the insane chess game he’s playing.

 

It feels right to lay it all before her, but to be honest; I just want to relieve Armand from her deadly stare.

 

 

While she’s busy listening to me, I see his face lighten up over her shoulder and he spins around to walk towards that small door behind his desk. He barely ever lets this door open, not when I am around anyways. There are  _things_ behind that door that make me uncomfortable. 

 

He discretely turns the handle and pushes the door a little, nothing more. With that,  he walks back to us with a hopeful smile on his thin lips. I briefly explain Collioure to Charlotte, trying to explain why have laid down my life for that man so many times, with little words, with little time.

 

But after a while, it’s all pointless, because Charlotte is gasping in delight, God, is she  _cooing?_

 

Armand’s white cat, Soumise, has slid into the room by the pushed door, and has gracefully jumped upon the map, covering Provence in spotless fur. Under the table, I catch glimpses of that wide grey devil he calls Ludovic and a red one I can’t remember the name of.

 

 

 

My sister grabs the white cat like she cannot help it, breathing to Armand in a soft, awestruck voice :

 

-“Is she yours?”

 

-“She would say I am hers.” He gently muses. “They all would, all fourteen of them.”

 

 

-” _Fourteen?_ ” She lets out, and he nods, gesturing towards the door he left ajar.

 

 

As she timidly walks towards it, still carrying the purring white cat in her arms; Armand turns to me with a smug, satisfied grin. I frown, mouthing a silent, confused question, but just lifts one quiet eyebrow and shrugs.

 

As I hear Charlotte's overjoyed sounds coming from next door, he quickly leans over to kiss my left cheek, and though there are too many things I cannot seem to understand, I never knew there could be this kind of peace. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. 20k words of holiday fic.  
> I hope you have enjoyed your drink, your terrace. I hope there is sunlight and peace above your head. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hugs to you, if you have followed me so far. I have no words to say my thanks.


End file.
